


An Officer and a Gentleman

by ashamedbliss



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, British Military, Flirting, Fluff, Horses, M/M, Magic, Military Uniforms, Parades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashamedbliss/pseuds/ashamedbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon is a Captain in the Blues and Royals, perhaps the British Army's finest cavalry regiment, preparing for the summer Ceremonial season. Merlin is a new member of bar staff in the Officers' Mess, and their first meeting hints at everything but the course of events that follow. Morgana sees the way that their lives will change forever, Mordred just wants to share his magic with someone, and a silver dragon trophy drones on about <i>destiny</i>, of all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, this is my first step out of the Muse fandom and into the Merlin one, so please be gentle with me and if I get anything wrong, let me know.
> 
> Secondly, I'm involved quite intensively with the British Army, especially the officer side of things, so I think I know what I'm talking about here. Therefore, I accept that any inaccuracies are my own, and if you can point one out (cavalry/horse stuff especially) then, well, you deserve all the brownie points in the world. Similarly, if there's something you don't understand, _please_ ask as I love explaining military things!
> 
> Thirdly, massive love to my (many) betas for this little endeavour, from the plot-helpers to general back-rubbers. Special thanks to [millionstar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/millionstar/pseuds/millionstar) for holding my hand and the endless Colin spams on twitter <3

Arthur taps his pen against the desk as he watches the second hand tortuously drag itself around the face of the clock. He refreshes both his work and civilian e-mail once more before logging off his computer, glancing at the clock all the while. With a sigh of relief as the minute hand finally budges to the top of the hour, he stands up, grabbing his beret from his desk as he leaves the office.

It isn’t that Captain Arthur Pendragon didn’t like his job, it’s just his office. A smile soon spreads across his face as he makes his way down into the courtyard of Knightsbridge Barracks, shaded from the late April sun. A [troop](https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8176/7983052793_03c330aa50_z.jpg) of ten soldiers is just coming through the tall gates, mounted on horses much taller than Arthur and in their full uniform, having just finished their ceremonial duties for the day. These aren’t his soldiers - his own are busy cleaning their uniform and horses for their inspection tomorrow - but the sight still sets a bit of pride in his heart aflame.

“Arthur.”

Arthur’s brow furrows for a moment at hearing his first name, but the smile returns to his face as he turns to see Leon at his side. “That’s _sir_ to you, Mister Knight.”

The lieutenant simply grins at the captain. “They look good, don’t they?” he asks Arthur, ignoring the empty reprimand, and he doesn’t even need to see Leon’s smug smile to hear the pride in his voice.

“They yours?”

“Of course they are, that’s why they look so good.”

Arthur simply ducks his head and allows himself to laugh. He and Leon had gone through their training together at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. They’d commissioned from the same platoon, nearly side by side in the parade, and had gone into the same regiment. The Blues and Royals is one of the most prestigious of regiments in the British Army, and the two of them had spent sleepless nights on exercise during their training worrying that they wouldn’t make it.

Arthur looks at the lieutenant at his side, with his hands on his hips as he proudly watches the guard dismount and begin to lead their horses away. In that moment Arthur knows more than ever that in the last five years since becoming officers, they’ve done a bloody good job of it.

“Mess for a drink?” Leon asks as the clacking of hooves resonates around the yard. “You look like you need one.”

“Shouldn’t you be dismounting your troops?”

“Nah, they don’t need me meddling, they’ve got their sergeant.”

“Yeah, alright,” Arthur eventually agrees, and they begin to walk through the barracks, boots crunching the ground in time with each other simply because they can’t help it. “I got caught up in paperwork, the squadron leader has tasked me with booking everyone on training courses over the summer, half of them for operational skills too.”

Leon frowns. “Not the best thing to hear with Ceremonial season around the corner.”

“Don’t remind me,” Arthur groans, and Leon chuckles. Smoothing down his camouflaged uniform and tugging his rank slide and its three pips so it sits straight, he then fiddles briefly with the cuff of his shirt as Leon starts talking again.

“Got given my date for the Colonel’s interview,” Leon says, and Arthur turns at the sound of his grin. “Says it’s an outrage that I haven’t been promoted sooner.”

“Captain Knight _does_ have a certain ring to it.”

“Like Captain Pendragon sounds any less pompous,” Leon retorts and Arthur laughs. They pass a block of stables to their right, and a soldier on the other side of the road salutes them. As the senior officer, Arthur returns the salute. “I still don’t know how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Manage to see when they’re saluting you from about three miles away. It’s like you have a radar for people wanting to pay you attention.”

Arthur laughs and doesn’t deign him with an answer as they approach their home, the Officers’ Mess.

Arthur, Leon and the rest of the single officers of the Blues and Royals are accommodated in the Knightsbridge Officers’ Mess. When Arthur had tried to explain it to his ex-girlfriend, Mithian, he said it was essentially a hotel, albeit more permanent. They have their own bedrooms, but downstairs they share dining halls and lounges, which encourage friendship among all the officers. _But really_ , he’d said, _it’s not like a hotel at all._

Except, of course, for the staff serving them their every meal in bow ties and waist coats.

And the ridiculously low-priced bar only two floors below his bedroom.

But really, _nothing_ like a hotel.

Arthur slumps into a plush leather sofa, reminds himself to keep his boots off the coffee table that probably costs more than his month’s wages, and picks up a copy of _The Times_ that had been sitting on the table. Leon promptly snatches it from his hands and Arthur sighs.

“Is it my turn?”

“I’ve bought the round for the last three Fridays, so yes mate, it is.”

“Scotch?”

“But of course.”

Arthur stands up, throwing his beret onto the coffee table (headwear in the Mess is an absolute _no no_ ) before walking over to the unattended bar. “Gaius?” he calls, wondering where the Mess manager could’ve gotten to at this time of the day; the bar is always quiet before dinner, and especially on a Friday night when many officers get out of London for the weekend. He’s become good friends with Gaius over the last five years, good enough that he’s contemplating simply jumping the bar and pouring his own drink when he hears a glass smash in the back room.

“Gaius?” Arthur asks more cautiously, turning to Leon who sits on the other side of the cosy yet large room, shrugging.

“Sorry, sorry,” says a voice, and Arthur turns back. A tall, gangly boy - man? - stands on the other side of the bar, with wide blue eyes and the most ridiculous pair of ears Arthur has seen in months. “I had a fight with the dishwasher,” he says nervously, wringing his hands together. “Dishwasher won.”

Arthur hears Leon’s snigger over his shoulder. “Right.”

The man - Arthur can’t quite read the poor scrawl across his temporary name tag - pipes up again. “Gaius is on dinner duty, today, he thought he could leave me with the bar.”

“You’re new,” Arthur states, as if someone had just asked him what colour the sky was.

“Yeah. I mean, to this whole Mess thing I am. Place looks like it’s right out of a history book, honestly. Have you seen the paintings they have in the dining hall?” the newbie asks, face wide with wonder.

“Yes, I have,” Arthur replies, feeling a headache beginning to form at his temples. “I’ve lived here for the past five years.”

“Ahh, right, I should’ve guessed, really, what with the uniform and all.” Arthur fights the instinct to roll his eyes in irritation. Just who does this newbie think he is? “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I was just standing at the bar hoping a drink would magically appear in my hand,” Arthur says dryly, and only then does he permit himself an eye-roll when the newbie stares at him blankly. “Two Scotches, please.”

“I’m not allowed to serve you alcohol before dinner,” the newbie says defiantly, tipping his chin up before he withers a little under Arthur’s icy stare. “It’s... it’s Mess regulations, I read it in the little book--”

“I don’t give a _rat’s arse_ what you read in the regulations, this is my mess and you’ll--”

“Arthur, leave the poor kid alone,” Leon calls distractedly from where he sits on the sofa, idly flicking through the paper and making no attempt to help the situation.

Exasperated, Arthur sighs loudly before slamming his hands down on the bar and calling “ _Gaius_!” as loud as he dares.

Captain Pendragon is hardly one of the senior officers of the Mess, but so many of the higher-ranking officers live with wives or families elsewhere in the city that he often finds himself with some kind of power here. He revels, secretly, when Gaius makes his way through from the dining hall and puffs “Yes, Mister Pendragon?”

“Please tell me, Gaius, why two men who’ve had long, hard days at work can’t enjoy an alcoholic beverage in the comfort of their own Mess?” he asks coolly, and the newbie ducks his head as he fiddles with the bottom button of his waistcoat. Gaius frowns at the newbie, and Arthur smiles in victory.

“Merlin, get Mister Pendragon his drinks.”

“But--”

The newbie’s - _Merlin’s_ \- protest dies on his lips as Gaius quirks his eyebrow, before apologising once again to Arthur and going back towards the dining hall. Arthur can’t help but smirk as the drinks are poured for him ( _at least he can manage that much by himself_ , Arthur finds himself thinking) and tries but fails to keep the satisfaction out of his voice as he thanks Merlin for the drinks.

“Honestly, mate, you need to be nicer to civvies,” Leon chides him as he sits down, before taking his drink and raising it to Arthur with a quiet “cheers”.

Arthur takes a long drink, enjoying the way the whisky blooms warmly in his chest. “I like civvies! I can deal with civvies,” he says defensively. “It’s just civvies that begin a job in a military environment, and then proceed to swan around like they own the place.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you do in this Mess?”

“That wasn’t my point,” Arthur says sharply, but his tone implies that they both know Leon is right. Arthur glances towards the bar to see the boy has disappeared from view, before he swills his drink in his glass. “Remind me not to drink half the bar like we usually do on Fridays. My squadron has a 0700 inspection tomorrow.”

Leon makes a pained sound. “On a Saturday? You’re a cruel man, Arthur. And we really should start escaping this place on Fridays, especially now Ceremonial season is starting again. You’re going to spend all your time in this place if you don’t.”

“The inspection wasn’t my choice, blame the OC,” Arthur says. “Well, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go,” he mutters, before downing the rest of his drink and setting the glass down. “Come on, let’s go get some dinner,” he says, standing up and clapping Leon on the back as he follows suit. “Then I can tell you horror stories about how being a Captain is no better than being a Lieutenant.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Leon retorts and Arthur laughs, the incident with the insolent barman entirely forgotten.

~

Merlin watches the officers eat their dinner from the side of the room, waiting to clear their plates away when they’ve finished and left in their odd twos and threes. His stomach is rumbling by the time dinner service has finished, and he’s managed to get gravy all up the sleeve of his white shirt, which had been brand new on that morning.

“So, Merlin, how did you think your first day went?”

Merlin, Gaius and one of the other members of the Officers’ Mess team, Gwen, sit at the table nearest the kitchen, eating a plate of leftovers each that the kitchens had kept for them, as customary. The great dining hall is empty save for their little trio, the huge paintings of battles on the walls now overwhelming.

“Well,” Merlin says, pushing a bit of potato around his plate. “I managed to accidentally levitate some of the Mess silver while I was cleaning it, I dropped at least four glasses today, don’t even want to think about how many of them were because of magic, and I got shouted at by one of the officers. The first one I served.”

“Merlin,” Gwen sighs. He’s only known the girl a day and she’s already started talking to him like he’s a puppy in need of petting. Merlin continues stubbornly pushing the potato around the plate. “It’s only your first day, you’ve got the weekend before you have to come back and start it all again.”

“Joy,” Merlin utters under his breath.

“Dare I ask _which_ piece of the Mess silver it was?” Gaius asks, and Merlin looks up to find the older manager frowning at him.

“Um. The big dragon, on the mounted thingy.”

“You mean the dragon presented to the Mess in 1970 by the Queen?” Gaius asked. Merlin remained silent. “ _Merlin_. That piece of silver is probably worth more than your mother’s house.”

“I didn’t break it! I was just as panicked as you are now, believe me,” Merlin says, Gaius sighing.

“Alright. Well, I better go reopen the bar. Merlin, Gwen, you’re free to go once you’ve finished in here.” Gaius stands up with his plate, taking it over to the kitchen hatch before disappearing from the room in the direction of the lounge. Merlin pushes his plate aside and slumps his head down on his crossed arms.

“Oh, come on Merlin, the dragon thing is fine as long as you didn’t do it harm. Gaius just gets a bit jumpy over the mess silver.”

“It’s not the mess silver,” Merlin mumbled into his arms, before he lifted his head slightly. “It’s me. Some of the people living here have been doing this job longer than I’ve been alive. I don’t even know how this whole sodding Army thing works, let alone... oh God, that Arthur guy can’t get me fired, can he?” Merlin asks with wide, panicked eyes.

“What? No, silly,” Gwen soothes. “He’s only a Captain, and the officers can’t fire anyone, that’s Gaius’ call. So concentrate on impressing him, and maybe a Major-General if you see one, and you’ll be fine.” Gwen pushes back her chair to take her plate back the kitchens.

“Wait, which one is a Major--? Oh, _sod it_ ,” Merlin mumbles, watching his weekend slip away to endless Wikipedia research before his very eyes. At least _that Arthur guy_ was only a captain.

Only.

"Sod it all," Merlin mumbles once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun military fact of the day: in the British military, _lieutenant_ is pronounced _leftenant_. I don't know why it deviates so much from the original French, but the British Army is full of wonderfully quirky traditions, and this is just one of them.
> 
> ask me any questions if you have them!

Monday is Captain Pendragon’s favourite day of the week.

The weekend is always so boring, and there’s only so much time he can spend doing his admin or keeping fit. After a run alone out in Hyde Park, he ducks back into the Officers’ Mess for a quick shower and breakfast.

“Thank you, Gaius,” Arthur says as Gaius brings through the morning’s copy of The Independent from the lounge bar, knowing it was Arthur’s newspaper of choice. Arthur’s spoon of cereal stops halfway to his mouth when he sees the headline.

_BRITISH ARMY WAGES WAR ON MAGIC_

“For God’s sake,” Arthur mutters, idly flicking to the article and scanning through it. He’ll sort that out later, after his visit to Whitehall. Monday mornings in the Army were normally slow starts, especially as he’d had his troops on parade on Saturday morning. He’d decided to allow them a lie-in today, they'd more than earnt it in all their preparations for Trooping the Colour in just over a month.

Dressed in his normal camouflage uniform, he makes his way out of the barracks and flags down a black cab. The cabbie excitedly tells him of his daughter joining the Signals, and makes Arthur flush when he adamantly refuses to accept his money for the short ride towards the centre of the city.

The receptionist asks Arthur to wear his military ID on a lanyard she gives him, and he feels quite stupid as he navigates the stairwells and corridors to his destination, a door at the end of a sad little hallway with a laminated sign on it:

_Precognitive Intelligence (ARMY)_

"Morgana," Arthur says loudly as he walks into her office, the lower ranking soldiers scuttling away from the conference table and to various workstations around the room. "Have you seen the papers today?"

"Mister Pendragon," Morgana says coolly, long dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head and only accentuating her features. She spares a glance to the rest of her office. "If you wouldn't mind scaring away my team next time you enter the office, it'd be appreciated."

"Aren't you all able to see the future anyway? You should've seen this coming," Arthur offers dismissively, sliding into the chair opposite her desk.

Morgana simply rolls her eyes. "Clueless. And try not to undermine me in front of my staff either. Call me Major le Fay when we're in this office please."

“You tell me that every time, yet every time I ignore you, darling sister,” Arthur smiles, yet Morgana still stares at him icily. “Fine, _ma’am_. Have you seen what Uther’s doing, though?”

Lips pressed into a tight line, Morgana swivels her chair to the other end of her curved desk, grasping a stack of newspapers and giving them to Arthur. “It’s all the same, even The Sun has picked up on it. The general gist is that Uther wants magic out of the military entirely. Half of the papers have failed to pick up on the fact that he wants to segregate it, and not remove it entirely. They’re scaremongering.”

Arthur scoffs. “Of course he wouldn’t want to get rid of it entirely. I mean, look at you and your team. You’ve saved countless lives, if he got rid of the precognition resource he’d be a fool.”

One of Morgana’s soldiers, a sergeant with a wide smile, places two cups of tea down on Morgana’s desk. They utter their thanks, Morgana leaving her tea untouched.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Arthur,” she says quietly, eyes sweeping across the newspapers fanned out across her desk.

Arthur sips at his tea, regarding his half-sister over the top of his cup. He can count on one hand the amount of times he has ever seen her cry, and at least two of those incidents were pain-based. His sister is known throughout her regiment, the Intelligence Corps, as an ice queen, yet as he watches her worried expression scanning the words before her, he wonders how long it will be before she breaks.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Arthur says, and Morgana looks up at him with a stern expression.

“No.”

“I will. This needs to stop. He’s only a Major General for God’s sake, he’s not even the Chief of the Defence Staff, and he thinks he can do all of this?” Arthur says, sweeping a hand across the papers. “He’s going to ruin the Army, all because of something that happened years ago now.”

Neither of them need to specify which event, exactly, triggered his hatred of magic. They both know.

“Arthur,” Morgana says in a measured voice. “You can’t speak to him. The Pendragon name is already in disrepute, but he’ll drag you into a press conference and add your face to it, too. You’ll suffer the consequences just as bad, or perhaps even worse.”

Arthur lets a short silence drag between them, watching Morgana’s features change from concern to mild panic. “You saw this, didn’t you,” he says lowly.

“No, I--”

“You only ever see people whose lives are in danger,” he continues, Morgana sitting back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest.

“I’m trying to help,” she argues. “It’s your fault if you don’t want to take my advice.”

“You just don’t want to see me make a fool of myself. That’s it, isn’t it?” Arthur asks, standing up from his chair. “You don’t want to be associated with someone who makes mistakes.”

Morgana stands up suddenly. “Get _over_ yourself, Arthur, and listen to me, just this once. If you speak to Uther about this, your life is in danger. I can’t tell you who, or how, but someone with magic will bring his vendetta against you.” Her voice lowers after having shouted at the start of her rant. She reaches towards Arthur and puts a hand on his arm. “I saw you, Arthur. You’re discussing this whole magic in the army situation, and everyone in the room is focussed on you.” Morgana lowers her gaze for a second as she takes a breath, before looking Arthur right in the eye. “There are two people with magic in that room, at least. One of them wants to kiss you, and one of them wants to kill you.”

“That’s preposterous--”

“That’s what I _saw_ ,” Morgana snaps, tightening the hand on his arm. “They might even be the same person.”

“You don’t even know?” Arthur asks, a nervous laugh echoing around the room as he shakes his head.

“Take it or leave it,” Morgana says, releasing his arm and sitting back down at her desk. “But for God’s sake Arthur, don’t get yourself killed.”

“Isn’t that my job?” Arthur asks offhandedly with a grin sure to infuriate his half-sister, before leaving the office. He still manages to hear her admonishment of “bloody Cav officers” as he walks down the corridor to the other end of the building. He prides himself on the fact that after five flights of stairs, he isn’t out of breath in the slightest as he arrives at some of the poshest offices in the building.

Major General Uther Pendragon, Head of the Household Cavalry (and therefore, in a roundabout way, Arthur’s boss) sits behind his desk of polished mahogany, barely looking up as his son is ushered through into his office.

“I hope you’re coming to see me about Trooping the Colour, otherwise I haven’t got time for chit-chat,” Uther says without looking up from his paperwork. Arthur strides forward, standing behind the chair in front of the desk.

“What, are you too busy destroying the Army from within?” Arthur asks, and Uther’s head snaps up.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been reading the bloody papers. All they do is spout lies,” Uther says with a frown on his face.

“I thought so too, until I read one this morning that didn’t mention your segregation plans, but instead talked about getting rid of all magic users in the Army. What kind of contrite rubbish is that?” Arthur asks, turning to see his father’s face blank.

The silence stretches between them.

“Oh no,” Arthur says lowly. “You didn’t. You won’t.”

“Our military has developed the capability to survive without magic users within the ranks, whose abilities can be temperamental at the best of t--”

“You’re putting Morgana out of a job!” Arthur shouts, slamming his fist down against his father’s desk and ignoring the pain flaring up his arm. “I had my bloody _life_ saved by a magic user! I can’t just let you--”

“ _Captain. Pendragon_ ,” Uther says loudly and slowly, standing from his chair to look down on his son. Arthur swallows dryly, remembering his place. “You can and you will. This is not your decision. You are to leave my office and not discuss this with a single person. Is that understood?”

Arthur tips his chin up slightly as he steps back, fists balling at his sides. “You’re making a huge mistake, _sir_ ,” he spits, before he swiftly turns on his heel and storms out of the office.

*

“Fuck’s sake Merlin, you’ll put a hole through it at that rate.”

Merlin glances up from the ironing board, on which lies a white shirt that _refuses_ to give up its creases, to Will, lounged on the sofa on the other side of their tiny flat. “You could help, y’know, instead of being a prick.”

“Who pissed in _your_ coffee this morning?” Will asks with a scowl, before changing the channel on the TV. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Will, officers are _experts_ at ironing. They’ll probably sack me, or fire me, or both if I have creases in my shirt.”

“Don’t you wear a waistcoat over your shirt anyway?” Will asks distractedly, engrossed in watching the auction of a broken vase on Bargain Hunt. Merlin puts a hand to his head, mutters ‘oh my god’ to himself and snatches the shirt off the ironing board, hurriedly pulling it on. “Where would you be without me, ay?” Will offers with a grin.

With a flash of his eyes, Merlin plucks the remote from Will’s hands and sends it flying across the flat, purposefully ensuring that it falls down the back of a heavy bookshelf full of Will’s chemistry journals for university. “I hate you sometimes,” Will huffs as Merlin pulls on his waistcoat (covering the stubborn crease in the back of his shirt), grabs his wallet and keys and rushes out of the door into the late afternoon sunshine.

Merlin’s working the late shift tonight, Gauis’ attempt to keep him out of the way of the officers who were only in the Mess during the day for meals until he’s mastered the basics. He arrives in time to eat his dinner with Gaius and Gwen, who update him with all the latest gossip of the mess.

“Oh, and don’t get in Captain Pendragon’s way this evening,” Gwen says quietly when Gaius stands to clear his plate. “He’s in a foul mood and is even being snappy with Gaius, which never happens.”

Merlin swallows a mouthful of food a little too early. “Right. Brilliant.”

Gaius helps teach Merlin the ropes behind the bar, a top-up of the knowledge he’d gathered whilst working at his students’ union in his final year of university. Merlin chats easily with the officers, on the whole much more welcoming and friendly than the Pendragon he was desperately hoping wouldn’t enter the Mess.

Of course, at that moment he looks up from the pint he’s pulling, and nearly spills it down himself.

Arthur Pendragon storms into the mess, and Merlin can feel his magic crackling in his fingertips at the sudden change. He manages to keep all the beer within the glass (without the use of magic, _thank you very much_ ) as he sets it down on the bar, distractedly passing the junior officer his chit so he can sign for his drink.

The captain talks quickly with his friend from Friday, the one who’d taken pity on Merlin, with alarming hand gestures and a furious look on his face. The lieutenant nods along, offering few words of his own, before Pendragon sighs loudly, turning his back and making his way across the room.

He glances towards Merlin, sending him an ice-cold glare before heading towards the staircase and out of sight.

“Pendragon being a prick again?”

Merlin starts at the voice, not even registering that the officer he’d just served was still standing on the other side of the bar. “No, well, no, I--”

“I heard that he treated you like shit the other day,” the officer says, giving Merlin a sympathetic look. “He thinks he owns the place, all because of his last name.”

“I’m sorry?” Merlin asks, glancing up and down the bar to find that no one else was waiting to order.

“Pendragon. His dad is Major General Pendragon, he’s in charge of the Household Cavalry.” The man smiles at Merlin’s dumbfounded expression. “The guys who ride horses. Us, and a few other regiments.”

“Ahh, right,” Merlin says, nodding. “Big cheese kind of bloke, then?”

“Exactly. And his son thinks he’s the same, which is worrying, after seeing what Pendragon Senior is wanting to do with the Army... God, you have no idea, do you? All things considered.”

Merlin doesn’t like his tone. “It’s only my second day on the job, I _am_ trying,” Merlin finds himself saying before remembering he probably shouldn’t be insulting people trained to use bayonets. However, he relaxes a little when the man opposite him laughs.

“I’m Second Lieutenant Black, but you can call me Mordred,” he grins, extending his hand over the bar. Merlin takes it, feeling his magic jump in his skin at the contact.

“Merlin,” he says, before looking down at their hands. “You too, then?”

Mordred smiles again, but this time it’s a slow thing that creeps across his face. He subtly points his finger at the head of his pint, the foam swirling into a lazy spiral pattern. “Yeah, I try not to shout about it too much in the Mess, though. It might even have me out of a job by the end of the year.”

“What?” Merlin asks, brow furrowing. “Why?!”

“Because Major General Pendragon is an utter twat,” Mordred says lowly, leaning over the bar towards Merlin. Their heads are close enough together that Merlin can smell Mordred’s aftershave. “I only finished Sandhurst in December, just joined the regiment at the start of April, and now they’re thinking about making me go to a specialist magic regiment - which is a load of _rubbish_ \- or they’re going to kick me out of the Army altogether. Well, not just me. All 5000 of the magic users in the Army.” Mordred straightens up, taking a sip of his seemingly forgotten beer. Merlin tries not to watch his tongue run across his top lip to catch the foam there. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve been talking to the other officers and... no one’s happy about it. Five years of training down the drain, if they kick me out.”

Merlin nods along, making mental notes to Google the things Mordred mentions, and to actually pick up a newspaper every once in a while. “Anyway, I’ve probably bored you for long enough,” Mordred says with a smile, shifting to pull up a bar stool. Merlin notices the brightly coloured chinos (some bizarre Cavalry officer fashion trend, apparently), and his eyes trace tanned forearms up to where they disappear under the rolled cuffs of Mordred’s white shirt. “What’s your story, then?”

“Nowhere near as exciting as yours,” Merlin says dismissively, but smiling nonetheless. “All you lot are war heroes, and then there’s me, an English Lit grad stuck working behind a bar.”

“Hey,” Mordred says, that smile on his face again. “I’m not a war hero.”

“Yet,” Merlin grins back. Mordred raises his glass to him, laughing, as Merlin has to turn and serve another officer.

Gradually, the lights are switched on as the sun sets outside, the officers who had been drinking a post-dinner tea in their uniform slowly being swapped for those in a bizarre type of dress they called ‘planters’, their tea switched out for gin and tonic. “The officer’s drink of choice,” Mordred had explained later in the evening, after Merlin realised he’d poured ten in about as many minutes. “Not for me, though,” he had smiled, his fingers still curled around his pint glass.

“And the brightly coloured chinos? Did I miss a competition or something?” Merlin asks, to which Mordred only tips his head back and laughs.

Gwen pulls Merlin aside towards the end of his shift just after Mordred has left and the majority of the officers have drifted upstairs to their rooms. “You do realise,” she begins in tone that puts Merlin on edge, “that Mister Black has been flirting with you _all_ night.”

“What? No! Mordred--”

“And that you’ve been flirting back?”

Merlin groans, turning and putting his forehead against the wall of the back room, where they now hide from view. “I don’t even realise I’m doing it half the time.”

“You should meet Gwaine,” Gwen laughs. “I worked in the Sergeants’ and Warrant Officers’ Mess for a bit, he flirts with everyone and everything. Well, I don’t mean that you’re like him, I’m sure you actually have standards, but...” Gwen realises she’s rambling, suddenly gripping Merlin’s arm. “Don’t let Gaius catch you. Well, don’t let anyone catch you, really. This lot are awfully good at knowing who’s sleeping with who.”

“Gwen,” Merlin hisses. “I’m not going to _sleep_ with him!”

Gwen pales a little. “Oh God, there I was thinking you swung that way, I’m so--”

“No, Gwen, no, I...” Merlin takes a deep breath. Second day of the job, second fuck up. “I _do_ swing that way, but I don’t plan on jumping into bed with any of the guys I have to see everyday. Alright?”

Gwen smirks, only slightly, before it’s gone. “Alright. Let’s ring last orders.”

*

Merlin wipes down the bar for the final time that night, the methodical task keeping his mind off everything that had happened. Had he been flirting with Mordred? Was he that desperate? Will _had_ been getting onto him about going out with someone new, ever since Cenred had very publicly humiliated and then dumped him at grad ball last summer. “‘Make sure he’s not a tosser this time’,” Merlin mutters to himself in the empty room. “Words of wisdom there, Will.”

Merlin starts when he hears a noise. Last orders had been called an hour ago now, and the lounge bar was empty. Gwen was happy to let Merlin finish up then leave, he would only have to lock the shutters and back room, a job he was sure he could do as he was eager to get back into their good books.

Now, though, Merlin hears another noise and considers just legging it. The Mess was quite scary at night, with only a few lights behind the bar illuminating the otherwise dark room.

He’s just considering flicking the main lights back on with magic when a figure appears in the entrance to the room. Merlin’s jaw drops.

“Arthur?” he asks curiously.

The officer in question steps forward, rubbing one eye with a closed fist. “I see you still haven’t learnt any manners,” he replies in a voice thick with sleep. Merlin swallows hard.

“What are you doing down here?”

“I could say the same to you, actually,” Arthur says, stepping up to the bar. He’s in a navy blue hoodie that practically drowns him, his regiment’s cap badge embroidered over his heart, and sports shorts. Merlin is nearly glad when the sight of his toned calves disappears behind the bar; they were quite distracting. “I wasn’t expecting anyone down here.”

“Do you come here often?” Merlin asks, Arthur’s eyebrow rising dangerously. “I mean, down here. At night time. Do you secretly raid the back room when Gaius isn’t here?” Merlin asks, eager to rush on from his mistake and trying to fight the blush flooding his cheeks.

“No, you idiot,” Arthur says, collapsing heavily onto a bar stool and sighing. “I have nightmares a lot,” he says, putting his head into his hands with his elbows braced on the bar. “I come down here to clear my head, wake me up a bit.” Arthur raises his head to see Merlin’s questioning look. “They’re the kind of nightmares where you don’t want to go back to sleep, Merlin.”

Merlin blinks at him, before he straightens up and a smile creeps across his face, unbidden. “You remembered my name.”

“Did you honestly just hear a _word_ I said?” Arthur asks incredulously, but without the heat it had carried on Friday. “I just told you that I have horrific nightmares, and you-- you are the most self-centred person I’ve ever met. I can’t believe Gaius has resorted to hiring people like you.”

Merlin finds himself smiling further at Arthur’s offended tone. He can’t help it. It might be the way that his blond hair is all sleep-tousled, or how his nose scrunches up as he yawns despite himself. Arthur shoots him a scowl. “Okay,” Merlin says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. D’you want a cup of tea, or anything?”

It’s Arthur’s turn to blink stupidly. “Um. Yes, actually. I could do with one after the day I’ve had.”

Merlin sets about making a cup of tea, popping into the back room to put the kettle on. His shift should’ve finished a good half-hour ago, and the Tube was closing in just over an hour, but he figures that he would want someone to do this for him if he’d just had a nightmare.

Any nightmare is horrible, but for one to upset a battle-hardened officer like this, it must be something else.

“How do you take it?” Merlin calls through to the bar, adding the requested splash of milk when he receives the answer and smiling at the fact that Arthur said _please_. His mind drifts back to what Mordred had said, about Arthur being big-headed. Maybe that was true, but there seemed to be something more to him that Merlin was curious to discover. He walks back through to the bar, setting the chipped mug down in front of Arthur. “Sorry, it’s just one of the ones we had knocking around the back of the cupboard. We’re not allowed to touch Gaius’ mug on fear of death, mine isn’t clean and Gwen’s is bright pink.”

“The lesser of four evils,” Arthur murmurs, blowing at the surface of it before taking a sip. “Thank you,” he mutters, wrapping his hands around the mug.

“So,” Merlin drawls, flashing Arthur what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Do you want to talk about it? I used to have nightmares when I was little, and I found that talking them out with my Mum helped.”

Arthur’s expression darkens immediately. “I’m not a child, _Mer_ lin,” he snaps, before his eyes meet Merlin’s again. His jaw tightens for a moment as his gaze flickers to a spot in the wood of the bar. “It’s always the same kind of thing. It’s just...” Arthur trails off, swallowing thickly.

“Go on,” Merlin encourages softly, wanting to soothe Arthur however he can, no matter how much of a prat he is.

“In 2011, I went to Afghanistan,” Arthur says matter-of-factly. “We were doing a foot patrol - we’re normally in vehicles, you see - and we came under contact. I was in an exposed position, I had to get into cover so I could command my troop, get us to safety.” Arthur pauses to sip at his tea, eyes darting from side to side as if he was reliving it in his mind. “We had a magic user with us, he threw up a shield to cover me as I moved, but he took a bullet for it.” Arthur’s cold gaze flickers to Merlin again. “I had to write a letter to that boy’s grieving parents, explaining how he died taking a bullet that was meant for me. Tell me that you wouldn’t have nightmares.”

Merlin shivers at the intensity of Arthur’s words. “But he saved your life. There was nothing you could do.”

“There were so many things I could’ve done, Merlin. At least once a week, I go to sleep and I see that firefight again, clear as day. There were so many options available to me, and I missed them all.”

“I know it might be quite a difficult concept for you, but you’re not perfect,” Merlin says, feeling courage coil in his stomach as he talks. “Neither am I. No one is. We all make mistakes.”

Arthur’s fists clench on the bar top, before he exhales and relaxes them, picking up his mug and finishing his drink. “Thank you for the tea,” he says, avoiding Merlin’s eyes as he slides off the barstool and heads for the entrance.

“Goodnight,” Merlin calls out, Arthur vaguely waving a hand in acknowledgement as he begins to make his way upstairs.

Merlin knows all about mistakes. He decides there and then that his greatest mistake to date is the blossoming feeling of warmth in his chest when he thinks about Arthur Pendragon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, an update! I changed a few things in Chapter 2, including Mordred's last name (now Black, not Cerdan) and the number of magic users in the Army (now 5000 not 25000 - which would've been 1 in 4 people, a bit much). Not massive changes but changes nonetheless!
> 
> bit of a short update as well, slowly introducing the actual plot. as always, if there's anything you would like explaining, or even any scenes you'd like to see, please comment! I'm open to ideas :) I'm trying to get back into the swing of this one so I'd love any suggestions.

Merlin sits at the end of one of the long tables in the dining room, a variety of trophies and statuettes surrounding him in varying degrees of cleanliness. He hums to himself as he polishes the Mess silver, and when his elbow knocks the can of polish off the table, his magic catches it and sets it upright once more.

“Merlin.”

A hand over his heart, Merlin jumps and sits upright, looking up at Gwen. “Oh God, what have I done wrong this time?”

“Nothing, silly,” she soothes, sitting down beside him and placing a cup of tea down on the table, slightly away from the silver. “Brought you a cuppa. Thanks for doing the silver for me, it’s my least favourite thing.”

“Well, I don’t like doing stock, so I don’t think you got off too easily,” Merlin grins, before setting down his duster to sip at his tea. “Thank you, this is lovely.” He flicks a glance to Gwen, who’s wringing her hands in her lap. With a clatter, he puts the cup and saucer back on the table. “Come on, out with it.”

“What?”

“That,” Merlin says, nodding to her hands. “I’ve known you only two weeks, and I know that when you do that, you’re anxious about something. You’re easy to read.”

Gwen flushes. “And you’re very perceptive.”

“One of my many charms,” Merlin laughs, and Gwen giggles nervously. “So, come on.”

Gwen fidgets slightly in her chair. “I know about your secret.”

Merlin laughs, somewhat nervously. “Gwen, you found out I was gay on my second day at work. Hardly a secret.”

“No, no,” she says, blushing before she looks around the empty dining room. “I meant your magic.”

“Oh.” The silence lasts for a moment, and Merlin picks up the duster again and resumes his polishing.

Gwen clears her throat. “I’ve seen you catch glasses, and clean the back room, and just now I saw you with that tin... I’ve never really seen it up close, actually,” she says, and as her tone turns wondrous, the panic in Merlin’s chest lessens slightly. “What kind of things can you do with it?”

“Anything, really,” Merlin says, focussing very hard on the lion he was now polishing, avoiding her eyes. “Gwen... can I tell you a secret? Well, another.”

“Is it that you fancy Mordred Black?”

Merlin blushes fiercely. “No. It’s much worse.”

“Is it Arthur Pendragon?”

The blush spreads to Merlin’s neck. “Gwen, please,” he nearly snaps, setting down his duster. Her grin disappears. “I... I can heal people.”

Gwen looks around the room. “That’s _illegal_.”

“I know, Gwen,” he says in a hushed tone. “It’s just... my mate Will got beaten up really bad, and we couldn’t take him to the hospital because he was really, _really_ high on some shit he got - this was a few years ago, when we were at uni - and I just... I don’t know. Healed him.”

Gwen looks pale. “You could go to prison for that. Oh God, why did you tell me?”

Merlin blinks at her, as if he’s trying to work it out himself. “Because I trust you. It was just an instinct.”

Gwen nods, wringing her hands in her lap still. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says, getting up. “Thank you, though,” she calls over her shoulder, before she leaves Merlin with the silver. He sighs, scrubbing at the lion again when out of the corner of his eye, he realises the dragon statuette is once again floating of its own accord.

“No. Stop that,” he mutters, using his magic to try and set it down again. When he has to get out of his chair to physically push it back down onto the table, the metal burns his skin. “Ah! What the hell?”

The dragon turns its head to look at him.

“ _Young warlock_.”

Merlin startles, stepping backwards and falling down into his seat. “Will was right, the milk was definitely off this morning. I’m seeing things.”

“You are most certainly not _seeing things_ ,” a low, rumbling voice patronises. The silver dragon spreads its wings and beats them, as if they are sore from being still for so long. “I have an important message for you.”

Merlin looks around him before he shuffles closer, deciding it can’t hurt anything but his sanity to listen to a decades old piece of mess silver.

“These are dangerous times, Merlin,” the dragon says, its tiny mouth frowning and eyes harsh. “A traitor to all things magical is in our midst. Trooping the Colour is nearly upon us. You must protect the one who will bring back magic. You must protect the young Pendragon.”

“Arthur? But he’s a prat!” Merlin whispers.

“ _Protect him_ ,” the dragon urges. “You are two sides of the same coin. It is your destiny.”

With that, the dragon flaps its wings once more, before turning its head and becoming still, the mounted silver dropping back down onto the table with a bang. Merlin peers closely at it, its mouth seemingly curled up in a smile. Merlin reads its inscription: “ _Kilgharrah, recognising the last of the Greats. Presented to the Mess by HRH Elizabeth II, 1970_.”

Merlin blinks at it once more. “This place is driving me absolutely mad.”

*

“So, um, what exactly is Trooping the Colour?”

Mordred tips his head back and laughs, and Merlin tries to think about anything but how good he looks in his suit. The officers of the Mess are entertaining a guest tonight, some honourary colonel from another regiment as far as Merlin’s gathered, so they’re all dressed in charcoal grey or black suits. Mordred’s is black, and Merlin thinks it suits him. Very much.

“Didn’t you ever watch the parades on telly when you were little?” Mordred asks, a dangerous smirk on his face.

“Well yes, _obviously_ ,” Merlin huffs. “But it just looks like a lot of prancing about on horses and soldiers falling over fainting.”

“And that is exactly what put me off becoming a guard,” Mordred says, toasting his pint to Merlin before taking a sip. “Trooping the Colour is how we celebrate the Queen’s official birthday, which is in June. The main parade is a Saturday in mid-June, but we have two parades on the Saturdays before it, and the public can come watch at those. We like to show off, you see,” Mordred says with a wink. Merlin blushes.

“Mister Black.”

Both of them jump at the sound of Arthur Pendragon’s voice. His suit is grey with a red tie, the fit of it so perfect that it makes Mordred look like he picked his up from a charity shop. “Yes, sir?” Mordred asks, sounding slightly terrified.

“Go and talk to our guest for a bit,” Arthur says in a low tone, “and in future try not to stop the bartender from _actually serving people_ ,” he says as Mordred scuttles off. “An officer has to learn how to work a room, you see, Merlin. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

“You know,” Merlin says as he pours the drink. “An officer could also learn to say please.”

Arthur leans against the bar on one elbow, smirking as he accepts his drink and looks out to the room. “P’s and q’s are for lieutenants. Captains are cocky bastards, Merlin, and majors, you want to avoid majors.” He turns back to Merlin, smirk still in place. “I should know, my sister is one.”

“Outranked by your sister? That must hurt a bit,” Merlin decides to tease. Over the past two weeks, Merlin hadn’t seen Arthur a great deal as he’d been mostly on day shifts, and Arthur spent much of his time nowadays riding. When he had seen him, though, they’d often traded trivial insults, Merlin somehow always ending up worse off.

“It does smart a little, yeah,” Arthur agrees, sipping at his drink. “But she went to Sandhurst three years before me, so I can hardly complain. Plus, she _is_ a girl, and we all know girls get promoted quicker.”

“Is it because of something like sleeping around?” Merlin asks, Arthur’s eyebrows raising. “I mean, God, I didn’t mean your _sister_ does that but I mean in general, is that the kind of thing that happens in the Army because it certainly happened in my third year dissertation module.”

Merlin finishes babbling. Arthur stares at him for a second before he bursts out laughing. “What? What did I say?” Merlin asks with a grin.

“Nothing, and yet everything,” Arthur says, composing himself again, standing up straight in that regal way of his. “It does happen in a few regiments, but no, Morgana didn’t. Although, quite frankly, the amount of casual sex that happens in the Army is ridiculous.”

“Really?” Merlin asks, his turn to look shocked.

Arthur nods. “Go serve someone else before Gaius tells you off. I can see him giving you The Eyebrow from here,” Arthur says, gesturing with his drink. Merlin turns to look down the bar, finding his manager there with said eyebrow raised. “I’ll still be here, I know what terrible gossips you lot are.”

Merlin reluctantly serves a few of the other officers, managing to spot Mordred passionately speaking with the visitor across the room. Arthur is still at the other end of the bar as promised when he returns. “Well?” Merlin asks, and Arthur smiles. He actually _smiles_.

“Camp Bastion was rife with it. It always is on tour. The Yanks have a higher girl to guy ratio than we do here, so there were some interesting _international relations_ ,” Arthur intones with a smirk, and Merlin laughs quietly to himself, unable to help his next question.

“And did you ever...?” he asks. He can picture it, Arthur bent over a girl in a canvas tent, camouflage trousers around his ankles as he--

“God, no,” Arthur says, straightening up after having once again leant his elbows on the bar, something Merlin had learnt was a bad habit of his. “After what happened with that magic user, I hadn’t felt like it. And the next tour I was with Mithian.”

Merlin’s heart sinks in his chest, not getting the message from his brain that it was a totally irrational reaction. “Girlfriend?”

“Yes. Well, ex. She had to move to Edinburgh for her job, and she wasn’t too pleased when I told her I wasn’t going with her.” Arthur wrinkles his nose slightly at the memory, before drinking again.

Merlin takes a sip from the pint of water he keeps beneath the bar. “You’d think she’d be a bit more understanding, really. I mean, I don’t know you that well--”

“You don’t know me at all, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur admonishes, tone light.

“--but you seem like the kind of guy who always has put his career first, and you probably would’ve made that clear to her at the start.”

Something flickers in Arthur’s eyes, and after a moment it’s gone. “You’re quite perceptive. Shame you ended up a terrible job like this.” Merlin rolls his eyes

“And you’re actually a prat. Shame no one else notices,” Merlin says, grinning in the way he knows will send Arthur away from the bar in a huff. He succeeds in doing so, turning to serve another officer and walking straight into Gaius.

“Be careful with what you’re doing, Merlin,” Gaius says.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was go--”

“No, not that,” Gaius says, turning his head to look at Arthur, standing in a circle of other officers that also included Mordred. “Mordred. Now Arthur. These men are officers. Leaders. They know how to manipulate people.”

“They’d never hurt me,” Merlin says lowly, shaking his head as if he refuses to believe it.

“They would, in an instant. You’re an innocent young thing, but you’ll soon understand that these men are almost a different breed. Just... be careful. Try not to wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Gaius turns and disappears into the backroom, leaving Merlin feeling incredibly torn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember if there's any military traditions/terms etc that you want explaining please let me know! the same as any scenes you'd like to see :)


End file.
